


In The Absence of Light

by originally



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Dubious Consent, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Religious Guilt, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-04 07:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13359507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally
Summary: Lavellan encounters some strange magic, and Blackwall is the only one around to give him what he suddenly craves.[Cross-posting an oldkink meme fill]





	In The Absence of Light

**Author's Note:**

> The original warning for dubious consent from both parties stands.

Blackwall slammed into the ground as the clatter of falling rocks and shouts of surprise echoed around him.

“Maker’s bloody balls,” he groaned, which didn’t seem to adequately cover it. “Inquisitor? Are you all right? Sera? Dorian?” He gingerly pushed himself to his feet, checking that nothing was broken, which, by Andraste’s grace, it didn’t seem to be.

There was a faint coughing coming from somewhere, which told him that someone was still alive, at least, though beyond that Blackwall couldn’t be certain. He moved towards the sound, and the sight of Dalish leathers and a shock of dark hair made him sigh with relief. Lavellan, and he was alive, thank the Maker. He rushed over to the Inquisitor’s side and helped him to sit up.

“Blackwall,” Lavellan said, looking up at him with a dazed expression. Blackwall knew enough from his soldier days to check him for a head wound.

“Did you see the others?” he asked, as he satisfied himself that the elf didn’t have anything worse than a bloody gash on his cheek.

“I—no. I don’t know what happened. There was a rune, I touched it, and then—boom.” He wiggled his fingers in a vague way that would probably have made Blackwall laugh at any other time.

“Stay there,” he said, and went to look for the others.

There was no sign of them either alive or dead. He and Lavellan were in some kind of underground cave. Blackwall paced the walls, testing for loose rocks, looking for a way out; he found nothing obvious. They had fallen from some level higher up, but he could see no way to climb back up either. The walls were smooth stone with little in the way of clear footholds, and neither of them had a pick. Above them, there was nothing but blackness. It seemed that they were trapped. At least Sera and Dorian weren’t down here, and hopefully could find a way to get them out.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been gone, but Lavellan was still sitting there when he returned, looking confused and fidgeting slightly.

“Inquisitor,” Blackwall said, and he could hear the concern in his own voice, “are you hurt?”

“No,” Lavellan said slowly, as if he were testing the word out. “No, not hurt. I just feel… strange.”

Blackwall felt a surge of protective instinct for the man. He was so small and lean, and looked as if he might break if touched; every time a bandit sword swung for him out there in the field, it made Blackwall panic. He was the Herald of Andraste, the symbol of everything pure and good. If he was hurt on Blackwall’s watch—that would be a stain on his conscience that no amount of hiding and penitence could blot out, and the Maker knew it had enough stains already. He shuddered.

“Might be here a while, and you don’t look well. We should make a fire.”

That turned out to be easier said than done, though; Blackwall had lost his pack containing his tinderbox in the fall and there was very little to be found in the way of dry wood or kindling.

“Never thought I’d say this, but I wish Dorian were here,” Blackwall muttered as he coaxed a spark from a bit of flint and a pathetically small pile of sticks.

Lavellan laughed, a high, strained sound that made Blackwall turn to look at him. He was even paler than usual and he was shivering. Thankfully the fire, such as it was, had finally flared to life, so Blackwall motioned to him.

“Come over here. You look like you need warming up.”

Lavellan shuffled closer, but he seemed reluctant to sit too close to Blackwall. He perched on the other side of the fire and huddled in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Are you sure you're not hurt, Inquisitor?”

“I'm perfectly fine, Blackwall!” he snapped, dropping his head down onto his arms like a petulant child.

Blackwall blinked, taken aback, but told himself that he should just stop fussing. Maker, when had he become such a mother hen? His fingers felt restless and he wished he hadn't lost his pack; he would have been grateful for his knife and some wood. Then he thought about a future adventuring party finding his desiccated corpse here next to the Herald of Andraste’s, with some pointless whittled animal clutched in its fingers, and shuddered. He pushed himself to his feet to make another round of the walls.

By the time he returned, the tiny fire had died down to little more than glowing embers and Lavellan was staring into it as if it held some great secret, chewing his fingernails down to the quick. Blackwall unfastened his badly-dented breastplate and mail shirt and set them aside; there was no need for it here, and the damned armour was uncomfortable. He sat down next to Lavellan, who made a small, distressed noise.

“Sorry, Inquisitor,” he said, discomfited himself by Lavellan’s clear discomfort, “but that's all the fire we've got and neither of us has a bedroll. Strikes me that we might need to, er, get a bit cozy unless we want to freeze to death.”

Lavellan turned his huge green eyes on Blackwall, with a startling, pained look. He looked so other in that moment that Blackwall was suddenly struck by the foolish revelation that he was not human. For all that he would die for this man in a heartbeat, Blackwall knew nothing of him, or of Dalish traditions. How were their clans organised? Was it offensive to touch your superior? Perhaps it was men touching that was frowned upon, though Lavellan seemed to have no qualms about flirting outrageously with Dorian whenever he got two ales in him. Perhaps, then, it was just the thought of touching Blackwall he was repulsed by. As he should be, Blackwall thought bitterly. The prospect of dying with his secret intact tugged at his conscience.

“Yes,” Lavellan said eventually, through gritted teeth. “You're right, of course. We should—“ he gave a strange, strangled gasp, “we should—should conserve warmth.”

Blackwall shuffled himself into a position with his back against the cave wall. Lavellan hesitated for a moment before sighing and moving to sit between Blackwall's spread legs, his back pressed flush against Blackwall’s front, close enough for Blackwall to smell earthy sweat and leather and a hint of something herbal on his hair. After a heartbeat or two, Blackwall wrapped his arms around Lavellan and Lavellan’s hand came up to rest on top of them, the mark glowing strangely in the cave gloom. He felt broader and firmer than Blackwall had expected, with defined muscle hiding under those layers of leather and cloth. Foolish, really; of course he would have to be strong, to wield his knives with such deadly force and precision. Blackwall had once seen him throw one clean through a man’s skull from twenty paces. Deceptive, like the boy, the one that always slipped out of the corner of Blackwall’s eye when he tried to look at him. But for all that, he was still slight compared with Blackwall’s own bulk. Such a small person to carry the weight of such a burden as that mark was. Blackwall tightened his arms instinctively and Lavellan whimpered.

“My apologies, Inquisitor,” he said immediately, chastened, and loosened his grip. “I shouldn't have—”

“It’s—it’s not your fault,” Lavellan said. “That rune I touched—I think it did something to me.”

“A curse?” Maker’s hairy balls, this was bad. Neither of them was a mage. Blackwall hadn't the faintest idea how to deal with a magical injury.

“I don't know. I just—feel hot. My head is fuzzy, like I drank too much wine.”

“Is there anything I should—”

“No!” Lavellan said quickly. “No, just—don't move too much. Please.” He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Creators, I don't know. Talk to me. It's too quiet.”

Blackwall frowned. Worries tumbled after one another in his mind but he pushed them back and reached for a story, one that wouldn't be too revealing.

“Did you hear about the time Sera talked me into moving all of the Commander’s furniture onto the battlement outside his office?”

Lavellan laughed his strained laugh again, and the knot of anxiety in Blackwall’s chest didn't ease.

He was in the middle of a rambling tale of a tourney from his youth when Lavellan gave a strange half-sob and began to fidget in Blackwall's lap, pressing his arse right up against Blackwall’s crotch. Blackwall froze, trailing off mid-word. Perhaps it had just been an accidental movement. They were in an unusual position, after all. He started his story again, but this time Lavellan rolled his hips, body undulating in a way that could be nothing other than deliberate, and let out a moan.

“What—”

“I'm sorry,” Lavellan said, sounding frantic. “I'm sorry, I can't help it, I've been trying to hold back but it hurts, _it hurts_ —”

“What hurts?” Blackwall said, head spinning.

“I think it's the magic, whatever that rune was—Creators, Blackwall, touch me, please, I'm sorry, I need you to touch me.”

The words came out in a gasping jumble; Blackwall understood them, but not their meaning.

“I don’t—”

The Inquisitor made a wounded sound and began to unlace his breeches with shaking hands, fingers scrabbling at the leather. “Please,” he said, “the magic—I need it, make it stop hurting.”

“That—that curse made you need to be touched?”

“Yes,” he moaned, throwing his head back onto Blackwall’s shoulder and bucking his hips. “I don’t know—maybe it will stop if I—if we—”

Blackwall’s heart stuttered in his chest. He had thought about it, of course he had; he would defy anyone to not be at least half in love with the Herald, with his big eyes and his beautiful smile and his guileless, innocent goodness. He was like a holy fire and the rest of them were helpless moths, drawn to follow him though it meant certain death at the hands of his enemies. Blackwall had never been a man of faith, and especially not since… he was Andrastian, of course, and had listened to the Chant in his youth, and said the prayers, but he had never truly _believed_ in it, not the way he believed now, in Lavellan. And now the focus of that belief was out of his mind with some curse, moaning like a cheap Val Chevin whore and asking Blackwall to… to _defile_ him, when he clearly would much rather Blackwall stay well away.

“I know you prefer women, Blackwall. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t desperate, _please_ ,” Lavellan begged

Blackwall started. “What? I don’t—that’s not the reason. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s hurting me not to do it,” he said, looking up at Blackwall with an expression of abject misery. “I don’t want to make it an order, but, Dread Wolf take me, I will if I have to.” He’d wriggled out of his breeches and smallclothes by now, and his cock was standing rigid and red against his belly, leaking down onto his leathers. Maker, how long had he been like this? Since they first fell down here? That was hours ago. With a final glance at Lavellan’s desperate face, Blackwall made a decision.

He pulled off his glove, took a deep breath, and wrapped his fingers around Lavellan’s cock. The sound Lavellan made was wild and animal, almost a howl. He thrust erratically into Blackwall’s hand, and Blackwall pulled him close, brushed his hair back from his face with his other hand and murmured soft, soothing nonsense into his ear as he brought him off. It didn’t take long, no more than a few firm strokes before he was gasping and spilling over his belly and Blackwall’s fingers with a wordless cry of pleasure. He slumped back against Blackwall, slack like one of those Orlesian marionettes, and whispered a faint, “ _Ma serannas_.”

They sat still pressed together, chests heaving, for a long moment. Then Lavellan made a noise of disbelief, and Blackwall looked down to see that he had begun to stiffen again.

“It didn’t work?”

“I think… it wasn’t enough. I feel—I feel empty. Would you—I need something inside me.”

Blackwall sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he said miserably, “I’m sorry.”

Blackwall pressed a fleeting kiss to the side of his neck, feeling Lavellan shiver in his arms. “This isn’t your fault. Let me—I’ll make it good for you. You deserve that much.”

He shrugged out of his padded coat and spread it out next to the fire, and urged Lavellan to lie on top of it so he’d at least be protected from the cold ground. He looked truly beautiful lying there, skin illuminated by the dim glow of the dying embers, cheeks flushed with arousal and lips parted. Blackwall wished this were any other circumstances, wished that the Inquisitor had come to him willingly, that he could have spent hours exploring his body, taking him apart with fingers and tongue and then finally, finally fucked him, when he was desperate and begging for it and unable to remember his own name.

But he was desperate and begging for it now for an entirely different reason, Blackwall reminded himself, and there was no room for sentiment. Only base relief. He knelt next to the Inquisitor, spat on his fingers, wishing he had something more than that and half-dried seed with which to ease the way, and pressed one of them to his entrance. When he pushed inside, Lavellan moaned and arched off the ground, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the dirt.

“Better?” Blackwall asked softly, and Lavellan gazed up at him with those wide eyes, looking painfully young.

“Yes,” he breathed. “More, please. It’s not enough.”

Blackwall pressed a second finger in alongside the first, feeling Lavellan’s body resist until it opened and drew him in, the slickness on his fingers easing the way. Lavellan hissed, and cursed in Elvish. Blackwall gave him time to adjust to the stretch, keeping his fingers still until Lavellan started to writhe. After that, he fucked him in earnest, pulling his fingers out and thrusting them back in in steady rhythm, responding to Lavellan’s moans and gasps of “faster” and “please”.  He was a vision like this, with his body given over entirely to pleasure: pressing himself down onto Blackwall’s hand with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, his slender hips bucking and his cock hard and flushed again against his belly.

“What do you need?” Blackwall said, pulling himself together. He had to remember that this was about the Inquisitor. He just happened to be the one here to deal with whatever this was. “Just tell me, I’ll do it.”

“Need more. Need to come,” Lavellan whined, in a tone Blackwall had never heard from him before.

“Shh, sweetling,” Blackwall said, surprising himself with the endearment. His face grew hot, but perhaps Lavellan was too far gone to have noticed. He crooked his fingers inside Lavellan and made him cry out, his whole body gone taut and quivering. When he reached for Lavellan's cock again, he hoped for the Inquisitor's own sake that this would be enough now. “Come on,” Blackwall murmured as he palmed him, awkward with his wrong hand. “Come on, you’re doing so well. You’ll feel better when you get this over with.”

This time, the Inquisitor called Blackwall’s name as he came, in a desperate, choked voice. They were both filthy now, covered in dirt and sweat and seed and worse, but Blackwall was heedless of the mess as he pulled Lavellan’s slight, trembling form back into his arms. He was babbling: prayers to the Creators, half-formed whimpers in Elvish and the common tongue, Blackwall’s name over and over. Blackwall held him tightly as his tremors subsided.

“ _Fenedhis_ , Blackwall,” he said eventually, “that was—I’m sorry you had to see me like this.”

It was almost completely dark now, but he had enough light from the dying fire to see the genuine sorrow in Lavellan’s eyes.

“No need to be,” Blackwall said, a little gruffly. “Stop apologising for something that’s not your fault. And…” He paused, not sure how to say this, or even if it were a good idea. “And—you’re beautiful, it’s not a hardship to help you. I’m only worried that you’ll hate me for it when you’re back to yourself. That I’ll hate myself for doing this to you.”

“Creators, we make a pair,” Lavellan said, with a humourless laugh. “Have I ever told you that I hate magic?”

Blackwall laughed despite himself. “I’m not too fond of it myself. Are you all right?”

“Not really,” Lavellan said honestly. “I hope this is over. But I don’t hate you, either, so you can stop worrying.” He pressed a soft kiss to Blackwall’s cheek.

Blackwall wiped his hand clean on his breeches, and brought it up to gently stroke Lavellan’s face, tracing the lines of his _vallaslin_ with his fingertips. Lavellan leaned into the touch like a cat, closing his eyes and sighing quietly.

Suddenly, he went rigid in Blackwall’s arms. “No, no, no, not again. Fen’harel’s teeth, what have I done to deserve this?”

“Maker’s breath, again? What now?” Blackwall said.

“Your cock,” Lavellan said bluntly. “You have to fuck me.”

Blackwall couldn’t help the way his cock twitched at that pronouncement, no matter how much he had been trying to stay detached. He was already half-hard in his breeches, and had been since this began. Lavellan’s hand had just dropped to his laces and discovered that, and he raised his eyes to Blackwall’s.

“You’re beautiful,” Blackwall said again, helplessly.

“Fuck me,” Lavellan said, voice gone rough as the spell took hold of him again. “Please, Blackwall, I’m ready, you already took care of that.”

Blackwall couldn’t help the strangled moan that escaped him. “Inquisitor…”

Lavellan laughed, a harsh rasp of a sound. “You might as well call me Mahanon after all that. Please, just do it, before it gets so bad again.”

“Mahanon,” Blackwall murmured, and unlaced his breeches. He spat in his hand again and palmed his cock, but he'd barely got himself fully stiff before Lavellan was batting his hand away and sinking down onto him with a moan of satisfaction. It was all Blackwall could do to stop them both tumbling into the dirt as Lavellan grasped Blackwall’s shoulders and began to ride him, an expression of pure rapture on his face.

“Maker’s breath,” Blackwall groaned. Lavellan’s body was deliciously hot and tight around him, and he set a breathtaking pace, fucking himself hard on Blackwall’s cock. Blackwall put one hand back to brace them both against the wall and gripped Lavellan’s hip with the other, holding him steady.

Lavellan had his head thrown back, gasping a stream of filth in his soft voice: about the size of Blackwall’s cock, how good it felt, how much he loved humans and their big hands and strong arms. His sharp nails were digging into Blackwall's shoulders even through his clothes. The glow from the mark cast eerie shadows across them both, making Lavellan look even more otherworldly; he was glorious in his abandon, like some avatar of an elven god of pleasure, if there was such a thing.

There was no way Blackwall was going to last. It had been far too long since he'd last fucked anyone and now he was fucking the Herald of Andraste, Maker preserve him. This was probably blasphemy.

Lavellan captured Blackwall’s lips in a bruising kiss, their tongues sliding together and Lavellan’s teeth catching on Blackwall’s lip. He moaned into Lavellan’s mouth, feeling the heat gathering in the pit of his belly that told him he was close.

“Inquisitor,” he gasped out, “Mahanon—”

“Not yet,” Lavellan said against his lips, “not yet, not yet, I'm almost—”

He reached a hand between them to palm frantically at his abused, reddened cock. He let out another animal howl as he came, pulling Blackwall with him; everything went white at the edges for a dozen heartbeats.

When he came back to himself, Lavellan was draped against him, panting hard, with Blackwall’s cock softening inside him.

“Was that—“ Blackwall said, “did it work?”

“I don’t know,” Lavellan said breathily, face pressed into Blackwall's neck. “Perhaps?”

“I hope so,” Blackwall said, “else you're going to die of exhaustion before anyone comes to rescue us even if the magic doesn’t kill you.”

Lavellan huffed a noise that was half laughter and half despair. “Here lies Mahanon, Hunter of the Lavellan clan, Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste. Fucked to death.”

Blackwall's heart dropped. “Maker’s balls, don’t even joke about it. Come on,” he said, wrapping his arms around Lavellan and gently lifting him up, “if it did work, you should get some rest.”

Lavellan squeaked and gripped Blackwall's shoulders, but allowed himself to be manhandled down onto the makeshift bedroll. Blackwall settled himself at his back, pulling Lavellan close to him; he wasn’t going to have the Herald of Andraste freeze to death after all of this. He lay there for a long time, listening to Lavellan’s even breathing and feeling his heart beat sure and steady and reassuringly-alive in his chest, before he fell into a restless sleep.

He was awoken by fingers pawing at his laces in the dark.

“What are you—“ he started, before he understood. “Fuck, Mahanon, still?”

Lavellan made a choked sound; to Blackwall’s dismay, he was shaking all over. “It won’t stop. I’ve tried—tried to do it myself. But it keeps starting over. There’s no relief. It hurts so much when I ignore it.”

Maker, this really was going to kill him. A wave of horror washed over Blackwall.

“I don’t know if I can,” he said. His cock was nowhere near interested now, not in this twisted parody of insatiability. He wanted to find and kill whatever mage had set such a terrible trap. He wanted to get out of the fucking cave. The last thing he wanted to do was have sex with the Inquisitor again. Not like this. Not when Lavellan’s poor body must be wrung-out and sore and still the magic refused to let him be. But he had to do it, because the Inquisitor needed it, and he was the one in pain and in danger.

Blackwall tried to think of something arousing. Lavellan’s impish smirk whenever he successfully got one up on Dorian. The curve of Josephine’s waist in that shiny dress she liked so much. That time he’d caught Sera in the act with a fancy tavern wench in Val Royeaux. Nothing worked.

Lavellan twisted in his arms until they were facing each other. His small, dagger-calloused hands found their way into Blackwall’s breeches and wrapped around his soft cock.

“Please, _ma vhenan_ ,” he said quietly, followed by a stream of Elvish that Blackwall didn’t understand, and then he kissed him.

It was a gentle thing, the kind of kiss that would have been sweet and romantic in any other circumstances. Now it just made Blackwall feel unclean. He surged to meet Lavellan’s mouth instead and made the kiss dirtier, more like whatever magic was at work here, all hot tongues sliding slick against each other and gasping breaths snatched against lips. He cupped Lavellan’s face, tracing the line of his jaw, and Lavellan tilted his head slightly to suck two of Blackwall’s fingers into his warm, wet mouth. When he met Blackwall’s gaze, eyes full of heat, lips stretched around Blackwall’s big fingers and pink tongue sliding between them, he was the most erotic thing that Blackwall had ever seen. His lips curved at the corners when Blackwall’s cock twitched in his hand, back to that wild abandon that the spell gave him.

“Fuck,” Blackwall grunted, hating himself for responding even as he bucked his hips into Lavellan’s hand. Lavellan tried to push Blackwall onto his back, preparing to ride him again, but Blackwall held them fast on their sides and said, “No, let me, you must be worn out.”

Blackwall gently rolled Lavellan back onto his other side, so his back was flush against Blackwall’s chest again with his head supported on Blackwall’s arm. He gripped the base of his cock and slid into him, as carefully as he could. It was so easy; he was still fucked open and slick with seed inside. Lavellan gave a pained whimper and Blackwall brushed the hair from his face, kissing the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry, sweetling,” he murmured, over and over. “I’m sorry.”

He had no idea if tender sex was better or not, if slow made the curse more agonising or if fast just made it restart quicker. Romance felt wrong, but the prospect of physically hurting Lavellan with more roughness was even worse. He rolled his hips, driving into him as gently as possible.

“More,” Lavellan said, pleadingly, “I need more.” He turned his head to suck Blackwall’s fingers back into his mouth with a sigh of relief.

Blackwall’s breath caught at the sensation. Maker, he really did need to be filled. Lavellan was making soft sounds of pleasure around Blackwall’s fingers, little moans and sighs and whimpers that went straight to Blackwall’s cock. He rolled his hips again and Lavellan gasped, swirling his tongue around the tips of Blackwall’s fingers in a way that made Blackwall moan. They were connected everywhere, pinned, both of them caught by the other. He buried his face in Lavellan’s hair, breathing in that familiar scent of leather and herbs. Perhaps this didn’t have to be blasphemy. Perhaps it could be worship.

This time, it was an agonising slow slide towards release that felt like the little death that they talked about in Orlais. Lavellan’s body was hot against him everywhere they touched; as much as Blackwall had worried about him freezing, he felt as though he were on fire. He was never still, squirming and canting his hips as Blackwall fucked him steadily, with long strokes that drew guttural grunts from deep in Lavellan’s throat. He thrust his fingers in and out of Lavellan’s mouth as best he could with the awkward angle, in time with the rolls of his hips. Lavellan’s next orgasm surprised them both: a shuddering, desperate thing that wracked his whole body with tremors but produced almost nothing in the way of seed. Blackwall stilled his thrusts immediately but Lavellan urged him on with rocking hips and his wicked tongue laving over Blackwall’s fingers.

“Keep going,” he whispered, “please, keep going, _ma vhenan_ , please.”

He crested twice more after that, growing ever more delirious and incoherent with each wretched climax until he was cursing Blackwall and the Creators and the Dread Wolf with every breath but digging his fingers hard into Blackwall’s arm every time Blackwall tried to stop. If he had been able to remember any of the Chant of Light, Blackwall would have been singing it, there in a pitch-black pit with his cock inside the Herald of Andraste. Instead he murmured encouragements, endearments, prayers to the Maker, with his mouth pressed to Lavellan’s pointed ear.

Finally, finally, Lavellan tensed and, with a piercing shriek that sounded more like a demon than a person, he shuddered to a release that was accompanied by a wave of _something_ , a sensation like those they felt when closing rifts. Lavellan went slack in his arms, like the fight had gone out of him all at once.

“Was that it?” Blackwall said, dazedly. “Did we stop it?” He pulled out, still mostly hard, and Lavellan hissed.

“Fuck,” he said, the curse sounding strange in his soft Dalish tones.

“That just about sums it up, aye,” Blackwall said.

“We should sleep,” Lavellan said in a strained tone, not making a move away from his spot in Blackwall’s arms but not looking at him either. “And stay warm. We’ll find a way out tomorrow.”

And then, quietly, “Thank you, my friend. For helping me.”

Blackwall lay awake for a long time after Lavellan felt into an exhausted sleep and his soft snores filled the space, musing on magic, and holiness, and the meaning of trust.


End file.
